


Don't Stop Believin'

by Swing Set in December (swing_set13)



Category: Supernatural, The X-Files
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 21:31:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3462776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swing_set13/pseuds/Swing%20Set%20in%20December
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sorry, nobody down here but the FBI's most unwanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Stop Believin'

**Author's Note:**

> Repost from my old livejournal.

"This is _bullshit_ ," Dean declares, throwing the file folder onto the chipped formica of the diner booth's table. His brother slaps his hand on it before its contents scatter onto the floor.

"I'm not happy about this either, Dean," says Sam signaling to the blond waitress for their usual.

Dean frowns and folds himself into the bench across from his brother before grabbing at the folder again and slapping his brother's hand away.

"Special Agent Castiel Meyer," he reads aloud. "Forensic pathologist, five years of exceptional service, blah, blah, success rate in the field would increase if he improved on his people skills. An overtly emotional partner is recommended." He scoffs as he skims over the rest of the details. "So I'm getting saddled with a spineless FBI squint who's going to be up my ass about every letter of the freaking law."

He smacks the folder shut and glared across the table like it was Sam's fault.

Sam levels his brother with a glare of his own. He was only willing to accept fifty percent of the blame. Such is the true beauty of any partnership, even if it was in the process of dissolving before their eyes.

Dean slouches further in the narrow seat as their waitress comes by with their order, a half-caff double vanilla latte for Sam and a black coffee and apple pie for him.

"Thanks, Jess," Dean says absently. She always cuts him an extra big piece, no charge, and today he desperately needs it.

Jessica smiles fondly and winks at Sam before sashaying off to the next table. Given the way this day has suddenly become pear shaped, he isn't even in the mood to rib his brother over his lame-ass coffee order or his obliviousness over Jessica Moore, the waitress-pre-med-student, who must be suffering from extensive brain damage to be mooning over his Sasquatch of a kid brother.

"You just _had_ to break down the door," Dean accuses, viciously attacking his pie.

"I'm not the one who brought the _flamethrower_."

"It was a rougarou! What else was I supposed to bring? Flowers and heartfelt, emotional poetry?"

Sam snorts and drowns himself further into his latte. "At least the Montgomerys didn't press charges."

"That is the last time I am listening to Travis," Dean declares. "I _knew_ longpig wasn't a word."

Probation. He can't believe they are on _freaking_ probation. He didn't think they could sink any lower on the rungs of the FBI, but where there's a Winchester, there's always a way.

Sam gets on his aneurysm face, which usually means Dean should check if for super glue on his coffee mug or an iPod jack in the Impala but Sam shakes his head with a wry frown and eyes his own folder.

Dean should consider himself lucky that he got partnered with Sam in the first place. The FBI usually doesn't pair siblings together; then again, no one really wants to be stuck in a basement office chasing ghosts. They had a good thing going: saving people, hunting things, right up until higher-ups decided to screw it all to hell.

Dean is good at his job, he doesn't care what any review board says. He gets the job done and doesn't really care if everyone is smiling by the end of it or not, especially the Bureau. He doesn't need people to believe that things go bump in the night, it's why their branch of the Bureau exists in the first place. The fact that they found a loophole to hunt within the bounds of the government is just icing on the cake.

In fact, Dean finds everything to do with the FBI creepy; he gets only a mild sense of relief that he’s working for the Feds and not _against_ them, because demons he gets; people, on the other hand, are crazy. And so far, the FBI have proven themselves to be utterly terrifying in their bureaucracy.

He doesn't have the time to compromise for the sake of writing plausible incident reports. It only drags out the frustration and he's left his fair share of disenchanted people, mostly local law enforcement, but he's not particularly upset about that.

And now Sam's being transferred and there's nothing they can do about it. Apparently the Bureau thinks Sam's worth trying to salvage while Dean can hunt succubi and vampires until the freaking apocalypse.

After demolishing his pie, Dean doesn't feel any better. Pie usually makes him happy.

"Who did you get?" Dean ventures, he hopes it's not Becky of all people.

Sam scowls and tosses over his folder. Looking down at the page, Dean smirks.

"Aw, Sammy. It's your _biggest_ fan," Dean says gleefully holding up the glossy mug shot of Gabriel Bright and revels in Sam's bitch face.

Things _could_ be worse.

\---

He's killing time in the basement by throwing pencils into the ceiling, a game that drives Sam nuts, but he's already left to meet up with Special Agent Bright. Dean's a little relieved that Sam's new partner actually knows his ass from elbow despite being a dick.

The elevator rings distantly but Dean continues with his game. The devil's traps and salt lines were already checked an hour ago. Footsteps come closer to his secluded office in the back, followed by a sharp knock.

"Sorry, nobody down here but the FBI's most unwanted."

The door opens with a sharp crack as he flings up another pencil.

"Agent Winchester. I'm Castiel Meyer, I've been assigned to work with you," says a low and gravelly voice.

Dean stops short, physically and mentally, because Meyer isn't what Dean has expected. Standing in front of his desk with his arms akimbo is the hottest mess of a man Dean has seen in his entire life. The grainy mug shot in his file hasn’t done the man in front of him any justice at all. Castiel is dark-haired and unshaven, his eyes are a piercing blue and he’s gazing intently across the small desk at Dean like he’s judging him in his mind.

Dean clears his throat, fingers fumbling with freshly sharpened pencils hanging loosely in his hand, and then he shoves the jangle of nerves aside - he’s _Dean Winchester_ , he doesn’t get nervous - and smirks.

"Oh, isn't it nice to be suddenly so highly regarded?" he says, scattering the pencils onto his desk haphazardly. "So, who did you piss off to get stuck with this detail, Cas?"

The man - Castiel, who names their kid _Castiel_ , for christsake - blinks owlishly at him. His hair looks like he's been screwed six ways to Sunday and his clothes are so rumpled he probably slept in them. His tie is askew, collar crooked, his dress shirt is white and clean but un-tucked messily and he's wearing a trench coat of all things. Surprisingly, the look works for him.

"You can call me Castiel," he says, his expression boring into Dean as he tries to contemplate Dean's apparent continued existence. "There's a bigger picture here. I am not pleased with this new partnership either."

"Well, thank God for that. I was under the impression that you were sent to spy on me," Dean retorts with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

Castiel tilts his head faintly to the left. "If you have any doubt about my qualifications or credentials-"

Dean stands up and grabs a wrinkled folder from under a teeming pile of papers that was held down by his telephone.

"You're a medical doctor. You did your undergraduate degree in physics - something about quarks," he says carelessly before tossing the file onto Sam's empty desk.

"Did you bother to read it?" Castiel asks with a glare.

"Research was Sam's thing. Loved it. He keeps it under his mattress, right next to his KY. It's a sickness, it is," Dean replies. He'd rather put razor blades under his fingernails than read the tome that is Meyer's thesis. "The laws of science rarely seem to apply in most of my work anyway."

Castiel snorts and his gaze lingers on Dean before he heads over to Sam's old desk. His new partner missed some of his shirt buttons by one, and there’s a resultant gap near his navel that shows a peek of pale, taut flesh and a sprinkle of dark hair. Dean tries not to stare before grabbing at another pencil.

"Do you know anything about crop circles?" asks Dean twisting his chair in Castiel's direction.

Castiel's head jerks up from the wrinkled folder and he glares at him. Dean ignores it.

"Four disappearances in Elwood, Indiana," Dean supplies getting up and tugging another file folder from one of the many file boxes scattered around the office. "Due to reports of crop circles and bright lights in the sky, rumors have spread that the disappearances are the work of little green men."

"Gray," says Castiel causing Dean to squint over at him. "You said "green men." That’s highly unlikely. Gray is the more probable colour."

"Get the hell out of here. There's no such thing as aliens," Dean says. "You're some kind of crackpot? Secret messages encoded in amino acid chains in carb-free breakfast bars, the Illuminati, government conspiracies about aliens on the moon?"

Castiel actually looks like he’s about to have a stroke.

"It was a _robot head_ ," Castiel growls but Dean isn't the type to be easily intimidated so he doesn't back down either. He stands his ground and looks Castiel up and down incredulously.

Dean knows the basement office is small, Sammy used to have to fold himself into it, so he notices pretty quickly how close they're actually standing. Their chests are nearly touching with each breath they take. Dean's finding it pretty easy to imagine other things involving horizontal surfaces and a lot of skin and sweat. He ignores the tiny flare of warmth that pushes through him at the thought.

"Do you have a better theory?" Castiel asks. There's definitely a predatory look crossing his features. Dean steps away quickly to regain some control of the situation. The office feels stifling all of a sudden.

"I have plenty of theories," Dean says, he's itching to call Sam because there is no way E.T. is behind this. "Maybe what you can explain to me is why it's Bureau policy to label these cases as "unexplained phenomenon" and ignore them. Do you believe in the supernatural?"

Castiel glares at him, which is way hotter than it should be. "I would have to say _no_."

Dean snorts. His new partner believes in aliens but suddenly ghosts are bull crap. He turns to grab the nearest file box and shoves it into Castiel's arms, creating a cushion between them.

"Patrick Brennan is the first of four people to go missing under mysterious circumstances. Now, when convention and science offer us no answers, might we not finally turn to the supernatural as a plausibility rather than little _gray_ men?" counters Dean.

Maybe he can make a believer out of him yet.

"The answers are there. You just have to know where to look - that's why they put the "I" in F.B.I.," Dean waggles his eyebrows before grabbing his jacket and heading to the door before he does something he'll regret.

"See you tomorrow morning, Cas, bright and early. We leave for the very plausible state of Indiana at eight A.M."

Castiel levels a look over the file box at Dean that says this is far from over.

\---

"Hey Winchester! Still chasing ghosts, huh? Or is it druids this time?"

Dean's eye twitches and he curbs his first instinct to punch out Henriksen. He doesn't want to spend another weekend at a Bureau sanctioned seminar. At least not without good company.

"It was a _wendigo_."

" _Right_. I heard about Sam. Bonnie to your Clyde," says Henriksen moving into Dean's space. "The Bureau finally decided to pair up the two crackpots. You're working with Spooky Meyer."

"Now that just hurts, Henriksen. I thought I was the spooky one."

"No, you're just crazy. I'm glad Sammy finally got an out of that basement hole," replies Henriksen before walking away. "Mark my words Winchester, I'll see you behind bars."

Dean is saved from replying when Castiel appears out of nowhere on his left holding two travel cups of coffee. Dean raises his eyebrows.

"Spooky?"

Castiel actually flushes. "I'm somewhat off-putting to others."

"Is this kismet or what, buddy?"


End file.
